Garden
by Genis Aurion
Summary: [StanKyle]. It had always been a garden. . . .


It was always like a garden.

Around it had always been wired fencing, however short of ineffective. It served its purpose, yet it could do so much better. You wanted something to fend off intruder, to protect the fresh soil that would soon sport your blooming relationships, and that fencing did enough to keep out what was unwanted.

You cultivated that soil. Ever since you were kindergarteners you talked of friendship, even in the most infantile of manners. You grew up, strengthening and enriching that soil, and your proclamation of being Super Best friends only furthered prepared the soil for what you would one day plant there.

You experimented there a single flower, a single relationship, all in the hopes for its bloom. It was a risk you wanted to take, flirting with the danger of damaging the rich soil it was built upon, but you wanted, you _needed_ that risk. And then, when you found it to work well, you planted more and more seeds, all until many colors of a relationship bloomed in the soil of your friendship.

You watered it daily. Even without realizing it, you were always the watering pot. You nourished it, gave it something to drink, and ultimately you allowed it to bloom. Perhaps without you there to tend to it, it may never have become what it is now.

You gave it the sunshine it needed, the exposure it wanted. First to Kenny, and he had gladly given you the tools to aid in your gardening. Then to your parents, who took it with slight reluctance, but they ultimately gave you permission to allow your blooming petals to prosper further. Then, finally, to Cartman, and though he might've trampled some particular flowers, the garden as a whole survived.

At times those flowers were on the verge of death, and those were generally at times when you forgot to water them. Those were the times when you were too engrossed in your studies, too occupied to remember your relationship needed the extra dose of water to keep going, especially when under the excruciating exposure of the sun. Yet you always managed to work it out, and even though you failed to remember to water your flowers properly, you still remembered the thriving spring that came forth from the bitter winter.

It was also something the both of you could marvel at in the years to come. One day you'd look back and laugh at its development, how each flower came to be, what each one stood for. Perhaps you would pick one to cherish forever, one that would always remind you of him, no matter where you saw it. By then, would either of you know which had been that daring flower, the one you had planted experimentally when you were still unaware the ending consequence?

Did it really matter, though? After all, the beauty of a garden is its entire appeal, not the beauty of each individual flower.

Your relationship was always like a garden. It started with a protective wall, when you were too scared to ruin the friendship you always wanted to keep. Then it was the seed you planted, the first one, the one you planted experimentally, merely to see if it would bloom in the rich friendship you had with him. You watered it with communication, with love, and with all the simple things that didn't seem important, the things that _were _important, even if the both of you hadn't noticed. You had exposed it with sunshine, your coming-out, and at times it wavered when you failed to show him you still loved him.

Yet in the end you'd look back upon the moments and smile, laughing at the flowers of hope, love, faith, serenity, laughter, anger, sorrow, sadness, joy, and all the emotions of flowers that were now scattered in the soil of your friendship; and when you stared looking at it, with _him_, you would never know what flower had been the first to be there. But the beauty of your relationship, after all, was not of the individual moments, nor of the feelings you experienced, but rather, the collection of those as a whole.

He never knew it, but you did. Your relationship… it had always been a garden.


End file.
